Chapter 2 Chalk Dust and Children's Laughter

The morning sun rose shyly over Padmapur, its golden fingers sliding through coconut palms and brushing the tiled roofs with warmth. In the schoolyard, the children were already gathered, their voices a cheerful symphony of rhymes and riddles, echoing against the mud walls of the village homes.

Arinay swept the ground with a stick before settling onto the mat. His slate board, weathered with years of rain and touch, lay beside him, ready as ever. The students trickled in-some barefoot, some with half-tied hair, most with eyes too bright for their young, burdened lives.

He clapped twice. Silence. The banyan tree above stirred like it knew.

"Today," he said gently, "we learn not only to write words, but to speak them with truth."

The children looked at him, puzzled. So he smiled and drew a simple word in chalk-"Satya"-truth.

A tiny boy raised his hand. "Masterji, is truth something you can eat?"

Laughter erupted. Arinay joined in, his heart momentarily light. "Yes," he replied, "but only if you are starving for it."

The chalk danced again. Letters formed, then ideas. He told them stories of birds that learned the language of winds, of rivers that whispered to those who listened. His lessons were never confined to books. Sometimes they were woven into games, other times folded inside parables he borrowed from his grandmother's tales.

A girl, barely ten, recited a poem she wrote for her missing father. Another sang a folk tune passed down by her mother. Arinay let them. He believed learning was not just answers, but expression.

By noon, chalk dust clung to his fingers like the ash of old memories. His throat was dry, his kurta creased at the collar. Still, he sat-listening to every word, correcting every curve of a letter, reminding every child that they mattered.

As he watched them chase each other during the break, he caught himself smiling. It was not the smile of pride, but of someone who finds beauty in small, fragile things.

But the breeze had shifted.

From across the paddy fields, a murmur carried-distant voices, raised and impatient. And from the edge of the village, smoke drifted faintly skyward.

Arinay stood, instinct tightening his chest.

The children returned to their seats, unaware. One tugged at his kurta. "Masterji, will you tell us the story of the sky ladder today?"

He knelt beside her. "Tomorrow," he said softly.

But even as he spoke, he feared what tomorrow might take.

Behind them, the banyan tree rustled louder than before. Not from wind-but warning.